


contagious

by orphan_account



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Comfort, First Time, Keith (Voltron) Angst, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Pining Keith (Voltron), Pining Shiro (Voltron), Sex, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 03:52:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17113970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: keith gets a cold and doesn't handle it well, shiro is Concerned, keith passes out in the shower because he's an idiot, fluff nostalgia and pining





	contagious

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this for an internet stranger i'm not caught up on the show and i watched 90% of it when i was taking benadryl so excuse me for things being wrong
> 
> this takes place after whatever the timeskip/time wonky stuff that makes keith legal age, no minors here

“Keith, you have to eat something.” He couldn’t see Pidge, but he could picture her hands on her hips.

“If I eat anything, it’s just gonna come back up again.” Keith remained facedown in his pillow, counting the throbs in his temple.

“Ew,” said someone, probably Lance. Keith could barely hear any of them through whatever space-phlegm had infiltrated his face.

“Shiro,” yelled Pidge. “Come make Keith eat something.”

“No, don’t—” objected Keith, picking up his head, but Shiro had already popped his head in the door. Keith didn’t have to guess that he had been fretting outside, waiting for the invitation. Shiro’s forehead was creased with concern.

“Hey,” said Shiro. “How are you feeling?”

All of them loomed in the doorway, Allura and Coran looking especially wary of the sound of human sniffling. Lance was holding a bowl of food goo; he pointed the spoon at Keith. “That had better not be contagious,” he said.

Keith groaned and pulled his sheets up above his head.

“Guys, can we give Keith a little privacy?” he heard Shiro asking.

He heard Shiro shut the door behind them, and a moment later, felt his weight settling onto the side of the bed.

Keith’s gut sank.

At first, neither of of them said anything. Keith could picture Shiro looking around, his hands in his lap, waiting for the right words and the right moment. Shiro always found them eventually.

“You really should eat something. At least drink some water.”

His voice was firm. Patient. Caring.

Why did it make Keith so angry?

“Keith?”

When Keith didn’t say anything, Shiro reached up and peeled back the blanket.

“I’m _fine_ ,” said Keith. “I just have a cold. I don’t need mothering.”

“I know,” said Shiro, cheerfully ignoring him, leaning over to press the back of his hand against Keith’s forehead. His own forehead wrinkled again. Concern. “You’re warm. Does your throat hurt?”

“Kinda.” The crackling in Keith’s voice told the truth. He resisted eye contact, looked away and evaded the subject. “Shouldn’t we just let Coran feed me a magical cold-curing squid, or something?”

“I don’t think we need to resort to something that exotic yet,” said Shiro, taking his chin and tilting it up. Keith’s gut twinged. “Say ‘Ahhh’.”

The lack of space between them shouldn’t have bothered Keith, or Shiro’s thumb brushing his lower lip, but it did. He yanked away.

“Oh, sorry.” Shiro let go. “Cold hands?” He held them up, apologetic, as Keith turned away to hide the stinging in his cheeks. He pulled up his blankets to forge a little distance.

“It’s just a little cough,” he said. He didn’t look at Shiro. He made his voice cross, rolling over in bed and taking the blankets with him. “Can’t you just leave me alone?”

Keith stared into the wall, hyper-aware of Shiro’s presence next to him. He could hear Shiro just sitting there, at a loss, not knowing what he’d done to piss Keith off.

“Hey,” Shiro said. “Did I uh- did I do something?”

“I just want to sleep.”

“Okay,” said Shiro. The _‘this isn’t like you, Keith,’_ went unsaid. “I’ll leave you alone.”

Keith felt Shiro’s weight lift off the bed.

But even after Shiro was gone, it was no good, because when Keith fell back asleep, Shiro was there in his dreams. His fingers still brushing his lip.

—

Keith woke up from a dream he never wanted to think about again, sweat in his bangs and a bad taste in his mouth. He glared at the ceiling. No answers there. He felt sticky, hot and cold at the same time. His head clung to his dreams; even after he punched the wall, and with an “Ow, ow, ow,” held his fist against his chest, the dream was still there.

Keith went to wash out his dreams in the shower.

The hot water almost immediately made him dizzy. He rested his head against the wall, closed his eyes, and watched the purple and red of blood vessels expand and contract against his eyelids. _Just think about something else. Anything else._

What he really needed was a _cold_ shower, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to turn the knob.

Literally he couldn’t.

He had missed the telltale tunnel vision, but the ringing in his ears came suddenly, and as he reached for the shower knob, he felt strength leaving as if being funneled out of his fingertips. His head slumped, and then so did the rest of him. Keith unconscious before he hit the floor.

—

Keith woke up to a now-familiar dream. Shiro’s arms were around him, and he had his head resting against Shiro’s chest, feeling fingers pushing back his hair. “Keith?” Weird… Shiro’s voice was colored by more fear than usual. “Keith, hey, are you with me?”

Keith blinked his eyes open, and immediately winced and put his hand to his head.

“Owww.”

He looked up at Shiro and saw the melting of concern into relief on his face. “Thank god,” said Shiro. “You scared the hell out of me.”

Keith tried to get his bearings; he could still hear the shower running, and his hair was soaking wet. His head felt like someone had brained him with a brick. “Did I pass out?”

“Looks like it— and hit your head on the way down, too.” Shiro’s voice held both concern and amusement now that Keith seemed okay. But mostly concern. “You’re bleeding.” He pushed his fingers through Keith’s hair until he found the bump, and Keith flinched. “Sorry. Let me get a towel, we need to apply pressure to this.”

At the word ‘towel’ something clicked in Keith’s head.

_He was still naked._

Face flaming into red, acting on dumb instinct, he rammed his hand up into Shiro’s face. He had meant to cover Shiro’s eyes. He got his nose instead.

Shiro’s “Ow!” was lost under Keith’s scandalized “ _I’m not wearing anything!”_

—

Keith’s face was still burning even after he was wrapped up in a towel. Shiro had one washcloth pressed against Keith’s head wound, the other against his freshly bloodied nose.

“Sorry,” said Keith, for the tenth time.

“It’s okay,” said Shiro good naturedly. “I’d probably deck someone too, if they walked in on me naked.” He paused, and in a different tone, one Keith couldn’t identify (was it guilty?), added, “I’m sorry. I came in to check on you, found you on the floor— I guess I panicked.”

“It’s my fault.” Keith took the washcloth from Shiro and pressed it against his wound. “I should have stayed in bed.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” said Shiro. He reached out and lifted up the washcloth to take a look, tilting Keith’s head this way and that to see if the bleeding had stopped. He touched his cheek. “You’re still warm.”

Keith tried to pretend the fever was why he felt so strange, so flushed when Shiro touched him. He looked away.

Shiro grabbed a clean towel to dry Keith’s hair. He smiled a half-smile. “Remember when you got into that fight back at the garrison, with that giant kid? I thought you’d broken your nose, there was so much blood. You ruined my shirt.”

Keith couldn’t help but snort, but then Shiro’s knuckles brushed the back of his neck, and he shuddered. He felt a surge of futile anger. When had this _changed_? He remembered their time at the garrison, how easy it had been, when a hand on his shoulder had been a source of comfort and not sparks. When had _he_ changed?

“I guess I’ve always been a pain in the ass, huh?”

“No,” said Shiro. “You haven’t.” The affection in his voice was plain.

Shiro had no idea. Keith bit his lip to stop himself apologizing for things Shiro didn’t and _couldn’t_ know about.

Shiro stopped drying Keith’s hair for a moment, hands resting on top of his head. “You know,” he said. He had taken on that serious, moralizing tone. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes,” he said. “Done a lot of stupid things. Things I can’t fix, or take back. You don’t get through life without regrets. But…” He lifted up the towel to catch Keith’s eye, giving him a smile that made Keith’s gut flip. “I look at you, Keith, and I get to feel proud.”

“Even when I’m a pain in the ass?”

“Especially when you’re a pain in the ass.” Shiro ruffled his damp hair, being careful of the bump. “Speaking of.” He turned authoritative again. “You’re getting back into bed, and you’re going to eat something, or I’m going to find Coran’s magical cold-curing squid. I’m sure he has one.”

—

Back in his room, Keith pulled on clothes and faceplanted into bed. He decided he was never going to move again. If he didn’t move, if he didn’t say anything, he would never embarrass himself again, or betray his secrets.

Five minutes later, he reached under his bed, rolled onto his back, and looked at an old picture of him and Shiro.

 _God my hair looks stupid,_ he thought.

In the picture, Shiro was beaming, arm around his shoulders. Man, Shiro used to dwarf him. So much had happened since this picture was taken. Keith barely remembered growing up. He didn’t feel that different.

He couldn’t help remember being younger, sneaking out of the barracks and finding Shiro, who was always resigned to the intrusion. Maybe Shiro could anticipate those moments. Somehow, Keith always found him already awake, reading a book or working through paperwork, a light on by the window like an invitation.

“Wanna go for a ride?” Shiro would suggest, seeing his face. He knew that Keith always felt better behind the wheel.

Those nights always started out with Keith’s declaration of “I don’t belong here,” and ended with Keith begrudgingly admitting that he did—if only because Shiro was there.

Shiro always sent him home after, even when Keith asked “can’t I stay here?” in his most pitful voice.

Shiro had always said no.

Had he known something? Even then? Had he thought Keith didn’t just come to him for the comfort of a mentor, but because he had a crush?

 _Had_ it been a crush?

Back then, Keith would have scoffed at the idea if it had even occurred to him. ‘Hero worship’ didn’t make him bristle. It was accurate. All of the other words and labels seemed meaningless. He had never had to deny that he _loved_ Shiro, because you couldn’t live for someone that long, be rescued by then for so long, without loving them in the gut punching and self sacrificing way that he loved Shiro.

But did you call that a crush?

Crushes were for children. At some point he had stopped being a kid, but he had never stopped wanting to slip away at night to see Shiro.

He always wanted to see him.

But when Shiro knocked on the door (and he made sure to knock this time, very loudly), Keith didn’t want him to come in. Miserably, the dream came to mind again—Shiro’s arms on either side of his head, Shiro’s breath on his mouth. The imagined feeling was inescapable. He sat up in bed and wrapped his arms around his knees.

“Come in,” he said, voice muffled.

“I got the blandest thing possible,” said Shiro. “And then, um, some of everything else.”

He had a plate of food goo, some of it of Hunk’s design. Shiro set it on the bedside table and sat down on the bed again. Arms crossed, he looked ready to be stern again, to make sure Keith ate, but then he saw the picture of the two of them that Keith had taken out.

“Oh, man.” He laughed, reaching over to take it. “Wow. My hair was stupid.” He ran a hand through it. Keith propped his chin on his knees and watched Shiro’s face as nostalgia washed over it. “Man, when did you grow up?” He looked at Keith, and his eyes were soft, dark, and fond.

“You were there for most of it,” said Keith. “I’m surprised it isn’t all burnt into your memory, I was such a chore.”

“Keith…” Shiro said his name with infinite patience. “You were never a chore.” He leaned over and cupped Keith’s face in his hands, and pressed their foreheads gently together.

They had had intimate moments before; stuck in the same small space, or sharing an embrace, holding onto each other after a reunion. Sometimes Shiro rested a hand on his shoulder for a long time, or tucked his hair out of his face, and once or twice on a whim, had kissed Keith on the forehead when nobody was looking.

This time, maybe it was the cold, maybe it was the change that had taken Keith over recently, but his pulse spiked. His heart broke into a chaotic rhythm. Hot shame competed with a different kind of heat—they were so close. He could have reached out and exhaled and they would have been kissing. He could have leaned forward and been in Shiro’s arms. He froze solid.

Cold with fear, his hands snapped out, and he shoved Shiro off of him.

Shiro recoiled farther than he had been pushed, naked surprise on his face; he didn’t know where he had erred. The forehead touch was closer than usual for them, but he didn’t realize right away that that was the cause. He reached up like he might have accidentally hit the bump on his head. “Keith, I’m sorry, I don’t—?”

And then he saw Keith’s face.

Shiro drew back again. In horror, Keith saw the realization in Shiro’s eyes; he knew Keith’s fear. And there was shame on his face—shame, and injury. He touched the back of his head, pulled away from him.

“I wasn’t trying to kiss you,” he said. “I hope you don’t think—” He looked away, across the room. The hurt on his face was stronger than anything. Quietly, he said, “I didn’t think you thought I was that kind of person.”

“Shiro, that’s not—I didn’t mean—“

“It’s okay.” Shiro got up, looked at his hands and at the plate of food. He looked at anything but Keith. “I um… I just want you to know, I never looked at you like that.”

Keith remembered all those nights of sneaking away, of Shiro refusing to let him stay, telling him _‘You need to sleep in your own bed, Keith…’_ The gentleness of his rejection. The firmness behind it. He couldn’t have been less of a predator, couldn’t have been more of a mentor, or a guardian. God, he made Keith feel safe.

_‘I never looked at you like that.’_

“I did,” said Keith

His cheeks flamed, but any embarrassment he felt was weaker than the fear of Shiro walking out, thinking the way he did. He spoke to Shiro’s back.

“I just wanted to be _with_ you,” he said, knowing there was desperation in his voice. _Please don’t walk out that door._ “I never wanted to be with anyone else. It wasn’t always… I didn’t know what I wanted. I still don’t. I just don’t want you to leave. Shiro, please.”

His voice must have been really wretched. Shiro looked at him; Keith felt awful at the combination of emotions he had created there, the confusion, the guilt, and something else he must have been hiding.

Shiro shook his head. There was something dangerous in the room, now—something spoken into reality. “I can’t.” In his voice was the decision he had made a long time ago.

“Please,” said Keith. “You don’t have to—I don’t need anything.” He floundered. “Just—stay, okay?”

He felt a string stretched to breaking between them, like something that could snap at any moment.

If Shiro walked out the door right now, that string would snap, and there would be a hole between them.

He would be alone again.

What was his life without Shiro? What had it ever been?

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s my fault. _I_ changed. Please don’t walk away.”

“I won’t walk away,” said Shiro. He ran his hand through his hair. He still didn’t look at him. There was a resignation in his voice; he wasn’t going to leave. He had decided that a long time ago… both of them have. Shiro finally glanced back at him. The worry in his eyebrows was plain. It wasn’t a question of whether or not he would _stay_ , but a worry about what would happen if he turned back around. What if he sat back on the bed? What if he reassured Keith? How did he answer this question… with his words, with his lips?

“I’m older, you know?” he said. “I can’t just—”

“I know.” Keith stopped him before he could finish.

“I’m not… inexperienced, Keith.”

That gave him a funny feeling in his gut to think about. “I know,” he said, mouth dry. Apprehension mingled with a strong need.

Shiro looked at him. They had always been able to read each other; now they went eye for eye. But Keith had never seen that look on Shiro. His own impulse was reflected there. Keith felt hot in the pit of his stomach, and something between fear and excitement.

“I don’t ever want to hurt you,” said Shiro. He seemed to be convincing himself of that, not just Keith.

“You won’t hurt me,” said Keith with unearned confidence, and embarrassing eagerness.

Shiro looked at the picture he was still holding. Slowly, he came to the bedside table, and placed the picture face-up. Keith looked at it one last time as Shiro’s weight settled back onto the bed next to him, looking at the two of them looking back at the camera, one beaming, one scowling, while Shiro put a hand on the back of Keith’s head and tangled his fingers in his hair. Keith turned. Their foreheads touched again, and he felt Shiro’s breath on his mouth, and then Shiro closed the gap.

His kiss was so soft, so gentle. The _‘are you sure?’_ went without saying.

Maybe Keith should have felt less sure, but he had replayed this over and over in his dreams, and it felt like the most natural thing into the world to put his arm around Shiro’s neck and open his mouth.

“Easy,” said Shrio, between breaths, between kisses. “Easy…” It was hard to tell if he was talking to Keith, or himself. One hand was in Keith’s hair, the other running up his chest as if to hold him back. “Easy,” he said again, but now he was barely mumbling it. Keith felt the strength in Shiro’s hands changing. There was something less controlled about his grip, as he reached around to pull Keith closer. He turned his head to kiss him below the ear, breathing out on the sensitive skin of his neck, hand on the small of his back. “You’re still sick, and you just hit your head—”

Keith didn’t give Shiro the opportunity talk himself out of it.

He mashed his mouth against Shiro’s, hard, lips parted. Something seemed to snap in Shiro. Restraint took a back seat. He pushed Keith down, pulled back the blankets, and settled on top of him, cupping his face and kissing him hard. Keith let Shiro part his knees. Shiro hesitated one more moment, even as his hand ran irresistibly up his thigh. “Is this okay?” He asked.

“I want to,” said Keith.

Shiro didn’t ask anymore.

Shiro was gentle, but fast from experience and with need. He distributed rough kisses as items of clothing fell to the wayside on the floor by the bed. He wasn’t inexperienced; he had meant it. He didn’t waste a touch. He made it easy, stopping when Keith dug his nails in or gasped too hard, but he didn’t hesitate. It had been a long time for him; Keith could feel frustration under the self control, on the hard grip Shiro took on his hips and the fists he curled in the sheets, in the hot breath on his tongue. If it had been anyone but Shiro, it would have been frightening, but Keith wanted it, all of it, and the most visceral pleasure was the knowledge that he was part of what Shiro wanted, _needed_.

“Is it too much?” Shiro breathed between kisses. “Are you okay?”

“I’m good…” Keith put his head on Shiro’s shoulder, suppressing the dizziness, wrapping legs and arms around him, resolved not to let go. He couldn’t suppress the small gasps that came with a change in rhythm, or a d difference in speed, or when Shiro braced himself on the headboard and drove in deeper with a groan.

Keith dropped his head back against the pillow, staring up at the ceiling, then closing his eyes to pant. His hair was damp again with sweat, and the fever was worse, and the ache was in his entire body.

But he didn’t let go.

“Hey.” Shiro released his hip to cradle his head, turning Keith’s face up to his. He was being tender, but his voice had never been so rough, almost unhinged. “Hey, stay with me. You with me?”

“Yeah.” Keith fought to breathe properly. It hurt, but it was Shiro. And he trusted Shiro. “Yeah. I’m here.”

He wrapped his arms around Shiro’s shoulders again, and forehead to forehead again, they continued. The grinding, and how deep Shiro was inside of him, hurt the way a good, deep stretch hurt. He managed to keep in most of the whimpers. Shiro was slower now, gritting his teeth, every thrust measured. He was so close. “I’m gonna—“ he said, breathless, in Keith’s ear. He didn’t have to finish the sentence. One, two, three last deep thrusts, and Keith felt Shiro’s muscles contract all along his body as he finished.

Shiro didn’t say anything for several minutes, only breathing heavily into Keith’s neck. The silence was loud, making the sound of their panting more obvious. Keith hadn’t even realized they were making so much noise.

When Shiro finally moved, he got up on his elbows, and wiped sweat off of of his forehead before gently touching Keith’s face. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah… I’m good.” He hurt, but he was still aching in an embarrassing, needy way that made him want to grab onto Shiro and never let him out from between his legs. He hadn’t come.

Somehow, after all that, Keith was still embarrassed to reach down and touch himself.

“Here,” said Shiro, kissing him. “I’ll take of it.”

Shiro’s weight eased off and back, and cold air struck Keith’s upper body. He drew a blanket back over himself. Then he felt Shiro’s mouth, and he flushed all over again.

Shiro wasn’t inexperienced. He worked silently under the covers while Keith stuffed his knuckles between his teeth. Just when he thought he couldn’t take it anymore, and was about to beg Shiro off, he kept himself start to come. It felt deeper, better than any time he had ever come by himself. Shiro’s fingers were still knuckle deep inside of him, and Shiro wasn’t letting up, persisting with fingers and mouth until Keith couldn’t possibly come any more, or any harder.

When Shiro finally let him go, Keith felt exorcised. Dematerialized.

He had to roll into his side to collect himself. He pressed his face against the cold sheets and counted breaths. His mind took its time catching up, while his body twitched.

Shiro hesitated, then slid in next to him, pulling up the blanket, then wrapping an arm around Keith’s waist to pull him in secure. Keith rolled over to face him, rubbing his neck, where he could see Shiro eyeing the fresh hickies. “I’m okay,” said Keith, before Shiro could ask again. “I wanted that.”

“It was too much,” said Shiro, frowning. He rubbed a circle with his thumb on Keith’s shoulder, then ran his hand up to his still-warm cheek. “Especially when you have a cold.”

“I love you,” said Keith.

It wasn’t a novel statement; they both knew it, and had for a long time. The sex didn’t change it much.

“You still haven’t eaten anything,” Shiro pointed out, propping himself up on an elbow to give Keith a disapproving look. “But yeah… I love you too.”

—

In the morning, Shiro supervised his shower to make sure he didn’t pass out and hit his head again. When they appeared for breakfast, Keith bundled up against his fever and to hide the hickies, everyone raised their eyes around the table.

“Feeling better?” asked Allura.

“You look like shit,” said Lance.

Pidge, who wasn’t stupid, looked at the two of them, and then went back to paying a lot of attention to her food.

“Pass the food goo?” asked Shiro.

Hunk passed it. Just before he could take the plate, Shiro suddenly made a face. Looking confused, he squished his nose, flinched—and sneezed.

“Oh great,” said Lance. “It’s contagious.”


End file.
